The Phair sex barely awake in 'Guyville'

Bob Gendron, SPECIAL TO THE TRIBUNECHICAGO TRIBUNE

Liz Phair finally heeded fans' wishes. Tuesday at a sold-out Vic, the singer-songwriter returned to her indie-rock roots and performed her groundbreaking 1993 "Exile in Guyville" debut from start to finish. The homecoming served as a 15th anniversary celebration of the just-reissued album. More tellingly, the uneven show signified the controversial artist's effort to make a fresh start.

For the Winnetka-raised vocalist -- whose foul mouth, sexual politics and whip-smart humor initially made her a heroine to thousands of women and a target of countless disparagers -- a majority of the past 15 years have been fraught with questionable decisions. After emerging from Wicker Park, she pursued commercial ambitions that stripped her credibility and cheapened her sound. Phair's makeover culminated with her devolution into a come-hither pop tart who struck crass, half-nude poses befitting a laddie magazine. She's apparently not tired of the look.

Barely dressed in hip-hugging hot pants, high-heeled sandals and a sleeveless black vest that afforded generous exposure to a purple bra/bikini top, Phair could have passed for a Bunny in the old Playboy Club. And while the 41-year-old mother no longer suffers stage fright, her mannerisms were stiff and her presence awkward. Her amateurish command of the guitar paralleled the limitations of her thin, wavering singing.

Thankfully, the "Guyville" material didn't require any extra push. A three-piece backing band modestly played behind rather than along with Phair. Trash-can beats, crudely strummed chords and minimal fills generated rumpled rhythms whose vulnerable swagger reflected the emotional contrasts of the relationship-dominant narratives. Addressing rules of engagement, breaches of trust and feelings of loneliness, songs resonated as the intimate confessions of a woman not only scorned and confused, but angry and determined to flip social roles.

Phair vented disgust ("Help Me Mary"), used sarcasm as a weapon ("Dance of the Seven Veils") and appropriated cliches for derogatory intent ("Soap Star Joe"). Hopes, dreams and fears were couched in catchy refrains, falsetto highs and explicit punchlines. At times, the bluesy, boys-club music and thematic matter let Phair seem daring again. Yet even with the advantages, she couldn't always help herself.

Phair flubbed the send-up of male fantasies on "Flower," coming across as an eager stripper rather than a femme fatale. It's an identity crisis Phair needs to resolve if she's to move beyond "Guyville."